


like a pop fly dropping from space

by theladyscribe



Series: like a pop fly dropping from space [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Baseball, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Friendship, M/M, Minor League Baseball, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Zhenya signs the papers for his minor league contract three weeks before his seventeenth birthday and waits for his visa to arrive.And waits.And waits.And waits, until finally, it arrives, just in time for the 2003 baseball season to end.*A baseball AU.





	like a pop fly dropping from space

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been 2 1/2 years in the making (no really; draft 1 was created in January 2015) and would not have been completed without an entire squad of cheerleaders, springboards, and betas. A thousand thanks especially to hazel3017 and sleeperservice for the beta work.
> 
> Thanks also to the mods of wip_bigbang for giving me a real deadline to finish my shit. Without them, this story would probably still not be finished.
> 
> And finally, thanks to ninjaomelet for doing the fantastic art for my story. You can see all of it [on tumblr](http://ninjaomelet.tumblr.com/post/163895806016/for-theladyscribes-lovely-baseball-au-like-a).
> 
> Title is from "Summer of 1963: The Orbit of the Wiffle Ball" by Bill Meissner.
> 
> If you are interested in podficcing this, please contact me first.

The recruiters first arrive at the baseball diamond in Magnitogorsk when Zhenya is fourteen. He's been scouted before, at the Little League World Series and at away games in Moscow and Chelyabinsk, but this is new. Except for the Russian clubs, he hasn't had anyone come see him here, in Magnitka, so he doesn't really know what to do except play the game.

He almost hits for the cycle that night, just a triple shy. The scouts from the United States tell him through a translator that they were very impressed.

"You've got a good chance of going pro," the one from Cleveland says. "Just keep doing what you're doing."

Playing with the best in the world is Zhenya's dream, so he takes the advice to heart and keeps doing precisely that. He plays all the positions, though he's best at catcher and outfield. He spends his winters at the indoor batting cages and watching recordings of famous games. He breaks almost all the records in Metallurg's junior club and plays for the national team at the U-16 championships alongside Ovechkin and Bobrovsky.

And all the while, the scouts keep coming to Magnitogorsk.

*

**Magnitogorsk, 2003**

It's high summer and Zhenya waits for a phone call that may never come. He is sixteen, almost seventeen, and he waits by the phone for the call from Igor Dmitriyov telling him which baseball team has offered him the most money to play.

Several teams have asked about him, teams that have been asking about him since he made his international debut in the Little League World Series five years ago, as the star right-fielder for Russia in their heartbreaking 6-5 loss to a team from Quebec in the final. Igor Dmitriyov has fielded calls from the Marlins and the Astros and the Red Sox. Others, too, Zhenya knows, but Igor Dmitriyov hasn't given him details on all of them, saying he has seen their budgets and Zhenya can do better elsewhere.

It is early morning on June thirtieth, and Zhenya is waiting by the phone. His mother fusses around him, dusting the furniture in a way that can only mean she is as nervous as he is. "It is midnight in America," she reminds them both, wiping down the mantle for the third time. "Everyone is going to sleep. They'll call when it's morning there, I'm sure."

Zhenya murmurs in agreement, still sleepy himself, but too restless to close his eyes again.

The ringing phone startles him. He and his mother stare at each other, frozen in place, and it is his father, making breakfast in the kitchen, who picks it up. Papa's voice rumbles indistinctly before he looks through the door at Zhenya and his mother.

"It's for you, Zhenyushka," Papa says.

Zhenya swallows and nods and walks into the kitchen to take the phone from his father. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Zhenya, this is Igor Dmitriyov. I have some news." Igor Dmitriyov's voice crackles across the line, but he sounds pleased. "There are two teams that have offered you contracts. First is Milwaukee, which has offered you a good deal with a $200,000 signing bonus. Next is Pittsburgh, which has offered $100,000 for the signing bonus, but they say they want you to come to America as soon as you sign."

"And Milwaukee? When do they want me to come to America?" Zhenya asks, trying to keep his voice steady against his excitement and nerves.

"They want you to stay in Russia for the season, finish with Metallurg's junior team. Then, you'll come for spring training next year."

"I want to sign with Pittsburgh," Zhenya tells him immediately.

"Are you certain?" Igor Dmitriyov asks, his tone shifting into his wheeling-and-dealing voice. "Metallurg is likely to go to the playoffs this year, and your work visa might take some time to go through. You may not be able to play until the very end of the season."

Zhenya starts to say yes, he's sure, but Mama peeks into the kitchen with her eyebrows raised. "Zhenyushka?" she asks softly. "Good news?"

Zhenya nods. "Two teams, Mama! Pittsburgh wants me to start this year!"

"So soon?"

His mother frowns as she ducks back into the living room, and Zhenya follows, heart fluttering in his chest as he asks, "How soon can I sign?"

"Zhenya, do you not want to think about this a little?" Igor Dmitriyov laughs.

"No," says Zhenya, dizzy with happiness. "Tell them yes."

"They want you to play catcher," Dmitriyov warns. It isn't Zhenya's favorite — he prefers the outfield — but he's not missing this chance.

"I don't care," Zhenya says. " _Tell them yes_."

"Very well," Igor Dmitriyov says. "I'll send you the papers when they arrive."

"Da, okay. Thank you." Zhenya ends the call and collapses onto the couch, his heart pounding in excitement.

"Is everything okay, Zhenya?" his mother asks, not looking up from where she has gone back to dusting the bookshelves.

He lets out a shaky breath. "Mama, the Pittsburgh Pirates have offered me a contract to play baseball."

There's a clatter as his mother knocks over the medal she was dusting. "The who?" It's a joke between them — she knows exactly who the Pirates are.

Zhenya stands and picks up the medal. He puts it back on the shelf, rubbing his thumb across the engraving that says _Evgeni Malkin, Metallurg Magnitogorsk, 2nd Place, Little League World Series, 1998_. It was the first international tournament he'd ever played, and everyone had been so proud of him. Except he'd thought, _I can be even better_.

"The Pittsburgh Pirates," he repeats at last, in wonderment. "Roberto Clemente played for them."

He almost misses his mother's eyeroll. "Roberto Clemente, Roberto Clemente," she mimics, though there's fondness in her voice. "All you ever talk about is Roberto Clemente."

"He was the best, Mama. Twelve gold gloves — twelve!"

"Hmph," Mama grunts, though he can see the glimmer in her eye. "And did Roberto Clemente help his mother with the cleaning?"

"Of course," Zhenya sighs and fetches a dust rag of his own.

*

Zhenya signs the papers for his minor league contract three weeks before his seventeenth birthday and waits for his visa to arrive.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits, until finally, it arrives, just in time for the 2003 baseball season to end.

*

**Bradenton Pirates, 2004**

Spring arrives at last, and with it, Zhenya flies to the other side of the world. It's the first time he's ever flown anywhere entirely alone. He leaves Magnitogorsk long before the sun rises, his parents bidding him tearful goodbyes before he steps into the single terminal. His flight schedule takes him to Moscow, still enshrouded in darkness, and from there to New York, where he has less than four hours to go through customs and get to his connecting flight in another terminal.

Amid the cacophony of English and the press of so many people around him, Zhenya thinks, _oh god what have I done?_ He doesn't have time to let panic overtake him, though, so he clamps down on the churning in his gut and moves up in line.

"Passport," says the gruff woman at the customs desk. Zhenya dutifully hands it over. She eyes it for a moment and glances up at him. "Reason for your visit?"

Zhenya shakes his head; what little English he knows has failed him suddenly, too much of it all at once.

"You here for business or pleasure?" the woman asks. "Work? Or fun?"

"Baseball," he answers, stumbling over the word. "Play baseball."

The woman purses her lips, eyes his passport again, and finally hands it back to him. "Have a nice day," she says and waves him off.

Barry, his American agent, sent him detailed instructions for navigating JFK, so once he's out of the terminal, Zhenya looks for the signs for the AirTran. He takes it to Terminal 5, where he has to hurry through check-in and security to get to his gate on time.

It's early evening by the time he lands in Tampa, and Zhenya has been awake for most of the past twenty-four hours. He's exhausted, the journey overwhelming, and even the most basic English is too much for him. He has never been more grateful for the pictograms on airport signs.

He doesn't get lost on the way from the plane to the baggage claim, but it's a near thing — he finds his way by following the other passengers from his flight to the exits.

Barry waits for him there, holding a sign with his name written in awkward Cyrillic.

"Good flight?" Barry asks in heavily-accented Russian. He doesn't wait for Zhenya to answer, launching into an explanation in his overly-proper Russian of what Zhenya can expect from spring training as they pick up his bags and head for the car Barry has waiting.

"You have daily practices — you'll have to check with the coaches for times — and scrimmages once a week. They're putting you in English classes with some of the other rookies."

"Other Russians?" Zhenya interrupts, not comprehending. He hadn't heard of anyone else signing, and Ovechkin was practically fluent even before the Expos signed him two years ago.

Barry laughs. "No, these guys are Hispanic." He stumbles over the word and then says in English, "Dominicans, Venezuelans," before continuing in Russian. "You won't find many Russian-speakers here, and there certainly won't be any others on the team."

"Oh." Zhenya knew that, of course — it was something his mother fretted about, before he signed his contract — but he just assumed things would work out.

"For now, we've got you in a hotel, but if you stay here for the season — and I suspect you will — you'll probably want to move into the dormitories or rent something. It'll be cheaper than the hotel. The front office should have a list of rentals, if that's what you want to do. They might even be able to set you up with some roommates, or a billet family."

Zhenya nods, half-listening as Barry continues to talk about living arrangements. He stares out the window, squinting against the setting sun as they cross one bridge and then another, the second a massive bridge he later learns is the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. The view is breathtaking. Zhenya wishes he had a camera to capture the way the dying sun glitters across the gulf.

Barry takes him to dinner, talking all the while about the minor leagues and Florida and how the United States will be different from what he's used to. Zhenya struggles to pay attention, the many hours of travel catching up to him. When Barry realizes that Zhenya is practically falling asleep in his dessert, he signals for the bill.

Barry gets Zhenya checked into his hotel and bids him good night, saying, "I'll pick you up tomorrow and take you to the ballpark to get checked in."

Zhenya nods and waves goodbye, before heading to his room and collapsing into bed with his clothes still on.

*

Barry picks Zhenya up in the morning and takes him to get checked in at the training facility. Official orientation is tomorrow, but player check-in started earlier in the week. Barry thought it might be helpful for Zhenya to see the facility before everyone was there.

The trainers take him through a short physical, and one of the front office interns gives him a packet with the training schedule, reminders about the team's expectations, and maps of Bradenton and Tampa. It's in English and Spanish, so Barry takes it and says he'll translate the important things for him.

They're done with the paperwork by noon, and Barry abandons Zhenya to make some phonecalls. "You can go explore for a bit," Barry says, "but meet me back here in an hour, and I'll take you back to the hotel."

Zhenya pokes around the facilities, trying to decipher the placards on the walls before looking into a room to see if it is, in fact, a weight room or a storage closet. He's feeling pretty good about going two for four when he pokes his head into a change room. There are half a dozen guys in various states of undress inside. A couple of them give him odd looks, and one of them asks him a question he can't understand. Suddenly shy, Zhenya ducks out the door. He heads back down the hall in search of Barry.

He's not sure if those guys are his soon-to-be teammates or if they play for the short-season A team that will be heading to Williamsport. Regardless, he's not ready to attempt introductions without someone to translate for him.

Zhenya finds Barry chatting with one of the front office staff he met earlier. He can't remember her name — Linda? Lisa? Laura? — but he thinks she's in charge of arranging billets for the players while they're in Bradenton.

"You'll be in the hotel until after training starts," Barry explains. "Linda's working on some leads for a billet, but we don't want to jump the gun, in case it looks like they'll send you to Williamsport."

Zhenya nods. "Thank you," he tells Linda.

"You're welcome, sweetie," she says too loudly, as if she's worried about Zhenya's hearing.

*

Linda is a miracle worker, because she finds him a room with a bilingual English-Russian family. Sergei Gonchar is a development coach for the Tampa Bay Lightning, and his wife Ksenia is a former Olympic skater. They have billeted Russian players for the Bolts in the past, but Zhenya is their first baseball player.

"We might actually make it to some games this year," Ksenia laughs. "Usually, Seryozha just wants to lie on the beach all summer long."

Seryozha rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. " _I'm_ not the one who insisted we buy a house just a block from the ocean."

"But aren't you happy we did?" Ksenia says with a smile of her own.

"Of course I am, if it keeps my wife happy." Seryozha turns back to Zhenya. "Now, would you like me to show you your room before dinner?"

*

On the first day of full-squad training, there's a series of meetings that includes all of the players competing for spots on the GCL and short-season A teams. It starts at 9:00 and goes on for almost three hours as the managers and coaches make their presentations about the expectations for training.

It's all in English, of course, and Zhenya only catches a few words here and there — "baseball" and "fielders" and "gameplay" amid a jumble of vowels and consonants. Zhenya struggles to pay attention, distracted by trying to parse the slides on the projector along with everyone's talking points. At the end of each session, there's a chance for questions, but Zhenya doesn't know how to ask the million questions he has. He keeps his mouth shut and watches everyone around him for hints about what to do.

They take a short break for lunch, and the afternoon is group sessions. They divide the players by position — an opportunity, he supposes, to introduce everyone to their competition for roster spots. The pitchers and catchers are together, and the pitching coaches put them through their paces, trying to get a feel for the strengths and weaknesses of both sides of the battery. Zhenya faces three pitchers: first is a skinny black kid with a decent slider but not much else in his arsenal; then a smirking blond guy with a fairly standard curve and an erratic fastball; followed by a tall Latino with a wicked changeup and a perfect cutter.

At the end of the afternoon sessions, they gather everyone up and play scrimmages. Zhenya catches for three innings, two with the blond guy — Motherfucking Chad, Zhenya doesn't catch his last name — and one with the Latino — Martire Sandoval. Between them, they give up just three hits. It eases his fears about being unable to keep up with everyone because of his English. As long as he has the signs and an eye on the field, it doesn't matter what language he speaks.

*

The Pirates place him in an English class with some of the Latino players, all of whom speak Spanish to each other. On the first day, Zhenya walks into the room only to have a dozen sets of dark eyes swivel in his direction. The room is so quiet, the only sound the rattling air conditioner humming along steadily. Zhenya takes a deep breath, and says, "Hello. English?" He phrases it as a question, hoping they understand what he's asking.

A voice from behind him says, "Yes, this is the English class, please have a seat."

Ms. Tanaka is a brisk woman, with glasses on her nose, and a Pirates-branded backpack filled with twelve Spanish-English workbooks and one Russian-English workbook for Zhenya. She is the shortest person in the room by at least fifteen centimeters, but she makes up for it in fierce personality and a no-nonsense attitude. She has to, in a room full of egos that are about to be severely wounded by three months of intensive English lessons.

After going through introductions, Ms. Tanaka holds one-on-one oral exams, calling each player to her desk in turn. When she gets to Zhenya, she starts off with simple questions in English that he recognizes — what's your name, what position do you play, how are you today — before asking more complex things. Zhenya fumbles his way through it, but he goes mute toward the end, burning with shame when Ms. Tanaka patiently repeats a question a third time and he can only shake his head that he doesn't understand.

" _Evgeni Vladimirovich_ ," Ms. Tanaka says suddenly, with flawless pronunciation, " _I asked you which part of English you struggle with most_."

 _All of it_ , Zhenya thinks, but he can't seem to get the words out, too shocked by the revelation that Ms. Tanaka knows Russian as well as English and Spanish. " _How many languages do you know_?" he says instead.

" _A few_ ," Ms. Tanaka says with a small smile. " _Now, answer my question, please_."

" _People speak so quickly I don't know what they're saying_ ," Zhenya says after a moment. " _The coaches ask me questions, but the words all blend together, and the other players say things to me, but I don't know if they're being friendly or making fun of me, and_ —" Zhenya stops, blinking away tears he hopes the other guys in the room haven't noticed.

" _Learning a new language is hard_ ," Ms. Tanaka says. " _It doesn't happen overnight, but it's easier if you're surrounded by it all the time. You'll get there, I promise. You can go back to your seat now_."

At the end of class, Ms. Tanaka assigns everyone a language buddy. She places Zhenya with Martire Sandoval, and Zhenya wants to die a little bit. 

Sandoval — Martire — is handsome and funny and friendly, and Zhenya likes him despite feeling completely inadequate in his presence. It quickly becomes clear that he was matched with Martire because he's one of the best English speakers in the class. Zhenya isn't even sure why Martire is in the class — he answered all of Ms. Tanaka's questions easily, only tripping over a word or two as she asked him about baseball and the weather or whatever, from what Zhenya could tell. He was far better than Zhenya.

Zhenya's non-baseball vocabulary is almost non-existent, so over the next couple weeks, he and Martire devise a game. One of them points at an object, says what it is in their mother tongue and in English, and the other repeats it back in all three languages. When neither of them know the English word for something, they recruit one of the Americans, most often Mike Bartowski or Cammo, one of the other starting pitchers, to tell them.

Bartowski, it turns out, is one of Martire's roommates, and the three of them are fast friends. Bart is from Nebraska, "middle-America farm stock" in his words. He's a first baseman, a former college player, and one of the oldest players on the squad. He's the first person to start calling Zhenya "Geno," and though Zhenya wrinkles his nose at it at first, it sticks.

*

The Gonchars have a two-year-old and a cat, and Zhenya quickly falls for both of them. 

The cat reminds Zhenya of the shop cats in the corner stores back home. It is the laziest cat he has ever seen, except when it chases the geckos that skitter across the front porch. It disdains Zhenya, pointedly ignoring his attempts to coax it into letting him pet it. To entice it, Zhenya feeds it table scraps when Seryozha isn't looking, bits of cheese and pirozhki. In return, the cat pukes in one of Zhenya's running shoes, and that's the end of his attempts at friendship.

Natalie Gonchar, on the other hand, takes up with Zhenya immediately. When he is home, she clings to him like a shadow, following him from room to room. She brings him books to read to her, asks him to get her snacks from the cupboard, and curls up beside him when he falls asleep on the couch after a day at the practice fields.

Living with the Gonchars is both wonderful and terrible. Ksenia takes him grocery shopping and shows him how to count out the stupid American bills that all look the same. Seryozha helps him open an American bank account and get a driver's license.

They are endlessly kind and Zhenya is profoundly grateful to them, but he still gets slammed with a wave of homesickness when he wakes up to the smell of syrniki and sausages. On those days, he calls or emails his mother, assuring her that he is doing well and settling in. And if he comes out of his bedroom with red eyes, Ksenia is kind enough not to say anything as she hands him a fresh cup of tea.

*

Opening day comes faster than Zhenya expects. He finds out in the morning that he's behind the plate and slated to bat third against the GCL Red Sox, being sent right into the fray. Motherfucking Chad has the start on the mound, and while the two of them aren't unfriendly with one another, they haven't gelled the way Zhenya has with Martire and Cammo.

His hands shake all through the American anthem, sweat trickling down his back. He feels a little dizzy, but it's just nerves and the heat of the afternoon in Florida. The anthem ends. Zhenya wipes at his face and crouches down to take warm-up pitches.

With the snap of the ball into his glove, Zhenya finds his equilibrium again, and he tosses the ball back to the mound with a whoop and a grin.

The game is quick, not quite a pitchers' duel but fast-paced enough that Zhenya blinks and it's over. It's a 4-2 loss — nothing to write home about, but nothing to be too embarrassed about, either.

When everyone has retreated to the clubhouse, Coach Huyke gives a speech. Zhenya follows along with it well enough, picking out enough words that he can guess at everything else, namely that this game was a building block, something they can use to develop team chemistry or build character. Judging by the way the older players' eyes have glazed over, they've heard this speech before. He hopes that they won't be subjected to too many more of them this summer.

Bart stops Zhenya on his way to the showers. "Hey, Geno, Marky-Mark and me are going for burgers, wanna come with?"

"Yes." Zhenya nods toward the showers. "Change first?"

Bart rolls his eyes. "Of course, dumbass," he laughs. "No way I'm letting your sweaty ass in my car without a shower."

"You love," Zhenya says, coming toward Bart with his arms open for a bear hug.

"Fuck off," Bart says, giving him a shove and grinning. "And hurry up, I'm fucking _starving_!"

"Burgers" turns out to be half price appetizers and steak dinners at Applebee's, and "Marky-Mark and me" turns out to be them plus half a dozen other ballplayers from the teams in the division. Bart seems to know everyone, including the guys from the Red Sox and Twins.

"How you know all these guys?" Zhenya asks after the latest round of back-slaps and handshakes and introductions. "How many years you play?"

It's the wrong thing to ask apparently, because both Marky-Mark and Bart go quiet.

"Jonesy and me go way back," Bart says at last, nodding toward the redhead who was the first to say hello to them. "We were teammates in college. He's in high-A at Fort Myers, with the Miracle, now. Escobar and Monty are in high-A, too, with the Sox. We met in GCL last year and kept in touch. Monty and I played in Australia together last winter, too."

"Australia?" Zhenya asks.

"Endless summer," Marky-Mark sighs. "The dream, man. Baseball all summer here, and baseball all summer down under, and then back here for a new summer all over again. The dream."

"Yeah," Bart echoes. "The dream." He sounds forlorn.

They're saved from the awkward moment by the arrival of their steaks. The three of them tuck in with gusto, not slowing down until their plates are empty. When their server offers them a dessert menu, they take it.

*

Zhenya's life becomes a series of routines: early breakfast with Natalie and Ksenia, practice and warmups, games, dinner with Bart and Marky-Mark or Martire and Josmil. Their games are all at noon, under the blazing Florida sun, played in a stadium empty but for a handful of scouts and people too cheap to buy tickets to the Florida State League games in the evenings.

There are girls, too, mostly college students. Zhenya avoids them as much as he can, and when they get wind that he's not quite eighteen, they start avoiding him back. It's a relief, even if he does get teased about being "jail-bait."

All told, the season is nothing out of the ordinary. It's an instructional league, as their coach is fond of reminding them, which means endless drills and a thousand mound visits every game. Zhenya is told his catcher's stance will give him knee problems, and Coach Huyke makes him work with the trainers until he adjusts it. The days are long and hard, but the summer goes quickly.

Time passes both incrementally slowly and with increasing rapidity after that, and it seems like no time at all before it's September and the season ends. Seryozha drops Zhenya off at Tampa International with orders to email him in English so he can keep practicing his conjugations. "We'll see you next spring," he says, giving Zhenya a quick hug before letting him walk into the airport.

*

**Williamsport Crosscutters, 2005**

He finds out that the Pirates released Bart on a bright and cold morning in early January, via an email from Bart. It doesn't say much, just that the Pirates have let him go and he won't be in Florida when they report for spring training. There's an open invitation for Zhenya to visit Bart on his family's farm if he ever finds himself in Nebraska. Zhenya writes back that he'd like to do that and Bart should keep in touch.

He won't blame Bart if that doesn't happen, though. Zhenya can't imagine wanting to be reminded of baseball if they ever cut him loose.

Zhenya expects to notice Bart's absence when he returns to Florida for spring training, and he does, to an extent. It's tempered by the sheer amount of work to be done as he slips back into the rhythms of drills and scrimmages. They talk occasionally, mostly through text, but as the pre-season wears on and Bart becomes busier with the planting season in Nebraska, even the texts slow down to a trickle. When Zhenya thinks of it, he feels bad, but there's nothing to tell Bart about except the baseball season he won't be a part of. It seems cruel to do that.

With Bart gone, Zhenya spends even more time with Martire, which also means he spends more time with the other Latino players. He starts picking up more Spanish besides the curse words and the baseball vocabulary he learned last year, and he teaches Martire and some of the others a few words in Russian until they have their own pidgin of Russian and Spanish. 

Bart texts Zhenya out of the blue one day in mid-June a couple weeks before the short-season rosters are released.

 _U hear about Crosby?_ the text says.

Zhenya rolls his eyes. Of course he knows about Crosby, the Canadian phenom, the catcher breaking records in the Canadian travel leagues. Everyone's been talking about him for _years_. Zhenya played against him in the Little League World Series.

He opens his phone to relay all this, but there's already another text from Bart: _Pirates drafted him 2day_.

Zhenya knew, vaguely, that the Pirates had the first pick this year, and that Crosby was the likely choice. But he's been so caught up in getting ready for the season that it hadn't dawned on him until now. They're both catchers, and they're both _good_ catchers, but Crosby is the one being touted as the "future of baseball."

There's only room for one starting catcher on a roster, and the Pirates would have to be stupid to trade Crosby.

Zhenya has always known that just because he was signed by the Pirates doesn't mean he'll end his career with them, but he hoped he might. And now the Pirates have Crosby, and Zhenya's chances of staying with the team have dropped significantly. He doesn't want to be bitter, but it's hard not to be a little sour about it. He's spent the last year in their system, playing catcher instead of outfield because that's where they wanted him. And for nothing. Because they have Crosby.

He's glad that they're done for the day, because he certainly doesn't feel like doing anything except stew in his own frustration.

The next morning, Zhenya is called in to see Huyke and Prince before practice. He feels like he's in front of the firing squad, worried the two coaches have somehow discovered that he's less than enthusiastic about their new top prospect. He wonders if they've traded him already, maybe as part of a package deal to Seattle, or, worse, Houston.

"Geno," Huyke starts, "have a seat." He indicates the folding chair in front of Prince's desk.

Zhenya sits, knees a little weak.

"You've no doubt seen the news about yesterday's draft," Prince says, leaning forward across his desk.

Zhenya nods. "It's good draft."

Huyke smiles as Prince continues. "It was. And with the acquisition of Crosby — assuming he signs, of course — we have a log-jam at catcher."

"Log-jam?" Zhenya echoes.

"More catchers than we need," Huyke explains.

Zhenya's stomach drops. This is it. They're letting him go. He's glad he's sitting down because he doesn't think his legs would hold him. He's already dreading being told to pack his bags, dreading calling home, telling his parents that his dream has come to nothing.

"Geno? Son?" Huyke's voice pulls him back into reality. "You hear what I said?"

"Sorry," Zhenya chokes out.

"We're not letting you go, kid," Prince says as if he can read Zhenya's mind. "We wanna move you. Outfielder, if we can."

Zhenya feels dizzy for an entirely new reason. "Right field," he says immediately. "I play right field for Magnitka."

Huyke and Prince look at each other. "We may have to move you around to start," Prince hedges, "but we can take a good look at you in right field."

*

Zhenya barely has time to process the position change. They put him with the outfielders immediately; he borrows a spare glove from Marky-Mark until he can break his new one in. He expects it to be weird — he hasn't played outfield competitively in nearly two years — but he breaks himself in just like his new glove. He's a little surprised to find that it comes back easy as breathing.

With the shift in position, he spends less time with the pitchers and more time with the other fielders. Zhenya half-expects to be kept in Bradenton again, but he works hard, and it pays off with a top roster spot at the next level up, in Williamsport, home of the Little League World Series and the only other place in America Zhenya has ever been.

It is strange, to be back in Williamsport after several years away. Zhenya hasn't been in the sleepy Pennsylvania town since the crushing defeat Magnitka suffered at the hands of Rimouski in the Little League World Series. The town is smaller than he remembers, a little more run-down. It's still a baseball town, with a full stadium every night, even though the Crosscutters look to be headed for a losing season.

Despite the losses, Zhenya makes waves. Coach Prince tells him they'd send him up the chain, but there's nowhere else in the system he'd be able to get the playing time. "Better for you to break records here than warm the bench elsewhere."

He doesn't actually break any records, but he does lead the league in RBI. Not that it affects the win-loss columns: 46 RBI can only do so much when the bullpen has a collective ERA of 7.21 and there's no other run support. Zhenya knows that's the way it goes sometimes, but it's something of a relief when the season ends and he can put Williamsport behind him.

*

**Spring Training, 2006**

Zhenya doesn't have to be in Florida until the tenth of March, but he schedules his flight to land a couple days before minor league pitchers and catchers report. He wants to make sure everything is squared away for his full season as an outfielder. Besides, most of his friends are in the battery, and he hasn't seen them in months.

Sidney Crosby also arrives in Bradenton before pitchers and catchers report. Zhenya knows this because the gossips on the radio talk about it while his taxi takes him to the stadium to check in and because Sidney Crosby is there when Zhenya arrives.

He happens across Crosby with one of the front office interns on his way to the clubhouse. The girl — Erin, he thinks, used to work in the ticket booth — seems to be giving Crosby a personal tour of the facilities. Zhenya tries not to roll his eyes too obviously; it's not as though Crosby didn't spend the end of last summer in Bradenton with the GCL team, which Erin should know. But Crosby is following Erin around, nodding and smiling as if he doesn't already know where the weight room is or that it's down the hall from the PT and massage room.

Zhenya tries to push past them, but Erin stops him. "Hey, Geno, have you had a chance to meet Sidney yet?"

Erin is smiling at him, and Zhenya remembers she's only eighteen, maybe nineteen. She probably wants to date Crosby. Zhenya has to suppress another eyeroll.

Instead he smiles with all his teeth. "Sidney Crosby, I hear lots about you."

"It's Malkin, right? I've heard a lot about you, too," Crosby says, holding out a hand. "You really tore it up in Williamsport last year. I'm excited to play Pirates baseball with you."

Zhenya is sure Crosby says that to every person he meets, but he still preens at the praise of his play in Williamsport. "Of course I'm best," he says, which makes Crosby laugh, loudly and genuinely. It shouldn't be charming, but it is.

Crosby grins at him, and Zhenya finds himself smiling helplessly back until Erin coughs.

"I should —" Crosby waves toward Erin. "I'll see you around?"

It's sort of a weird question, because of course they'll see each other in the coming days, but Zhenya nods, getting another smile from Crosby. "Cool."

Zhenya watches him go, a little starstruck despite himself, until he remembers he has places to be.

*

The Saturday after the second full week of practice, the lower-level squads have a lunch provided by a local church, which means hamburgers and hotdogs and a variety of somewhat suspect casseroles. They generally smell pretty good, though Zhenya thinks that's mostly because he's starving. He piles his plate high with a burger and two dogs, and at least one scoop of each of the casseroles. There's pie at the end of the buffet. He snatches up a slice of the apple, figuring it'll be gone by the time he comes back for seconds.

An overly-friendly woman offers him a cup of lemonade and a drawling, "There you go, honey," and Zhenya turns to survey the tables.

He spots Josmil waving him over to a picnic table of Dominicans eating and chattering rapidly in Spanish. They greet him and shift to make room.

"How is the outfield? Having fun picking daisies?" Martire asks Zhenya with a smirk.

"Nice I don't see your face any more," Zhenya chirps back in Spanish before digging into his food.

The rest of the table laughs and continues their conversation about the pretty girl who was talking with Erin the intern this morning. Zhenya is content to listen, trying to pick out new words in the rapid-fire discussion to ask Martire to translate later.

The table goes unexpectedly silent as Zhenya takes a giant bite of his hamburger. Someone touches his arm, and he turns to see Crosby with his shoulders hunched, a plate and cup in his hands.

"Do — do you mind if I sit here?" he asks, voice weirdly pitched, not at all at ease the way he was when Zhenya first met him nor as confident as he is on the field.

Zhenya glances back at the others at the table, all of whom are watching him for some reason, as if he's the ringleader, even though he's really not. He swallows his food and elbows Josmil to scoot over, making space for Crosby on the bench.

Crosby smiles and sits, and though it isn't long before the table gets loud again, Zhenya can feel the tension coming off Crosby in waves. He intentionally knocks his left elbow into Crosby's right. Crosby jumps and looks at him. Zhenya looks down at his plate and pulls a face at the last casserole on it.

"Tuna," he says, which gets a startled laugh out of Crosby. The tension in his shoulders visibly eases.

"Are they talking about me?" Crosby asks, nodding toward Josmil and Martire, who are still arguing amicably about Erin's friend.

Zhenya tunes back into the table's chatter. "No," he answers. "They take bets on who gets date with Erin's friend today."

Crosby looks thoughtful. "My money's on none of them," he says. "Can you tell them that?"

Zhenya raises his eyebrows but does so.

"Are you joining the asking pool?" Martire asks in English.

"No," Crosby giggles, "just twenty down on _none_ of you getting a date."

There's hooting and bluster at that, but Yancarlos adds Crosby to the betting pool on his phone.

As they head back to practice, Zhenya catches Crosby alone. "You very sure about bet. Martire, he's very charming, gets all the girls. Should pick him."

Crosby grins up at Zhenya. "None of them know what I know. I'm confident she'll turn them all down."

"Why you so sure? What you know?"

"She's Erin's girlfriend."

Zhenya stops short. " _You devious motherfucker_ ," he says in Russian.

Crosby laughs again. "I don't know what you said, but probably."

*

Zhenya doesn't quite know what to make of Sidney Crosby. He's affable enough, friendly with most everyone, disarmingly polite to anyone who approaches him, whether a teammate, an opponent, or a fan looking for an autograph.

He doesn't seem to have friends at first, never sitting with the same people at team meetings, moving between fielders and pitchers, infield and outfield, Americans and Latinos, college picks and free agents and kids signed straight out of highschool. It takes Zhenya longer than it should to realize that it's not that Sidney Crosby has _no_ friends, it's that he's trying to be friends with _everyone_.

It seems to work, mostly. Sidney has an earnestness only rivaled by his intense focus on baseball. He straddles the line between endearing and irritating. Zhenya knows that some of the older guys, the college players and the ones who've been in the system for a couple years, find it more irritating than endearing, but Zhenya doesn't mind it so much.

Zhenya doesn't intend to be friends with Crosby, but after that lunch, they're at least friendly. They sit together at most of their team meals and hang out outside of practices. Crosby's Spanish is even worse than Zhenya's, but he makes an effort to communicate with the Latino players, too, using hand signals and drawing pictures in the dirt during practices, or getting Zhenya or Martire to translate when they're nearby.

It's surprising, especially given Crosby's reputation with the American pitchers, which is rocky at best, from what Zhenya can glean. "He thinks he's a coach," Martire says with a shrug when Zhenya asks him about it. "He likes to talk. I don't mind, but some people do."

Zhenya doesn't have to ask to know that "some people" means Motherfucking Chad. He's a dick, plain and simple, a high draft pick from college ball, and it shows. Out of all the pitchers Zhenya has worked with, Motherfucking Chad is the worst. While he might miss hanging out with some of the battery, he doesn't miss Motherfucking Chad at all.

The kicker is when the rosters are released. Zhenya knew he'd probably go to Hickory to start the season, because Coach Carlson had said they want to work on his fielding a little more, and Hickory is the best place to do it. He doesn't mind, especially since a lot of the team from Williamsport will be there. The exception is Martire, who's being sent straight to high-A in Lynchburg, the lucky bastard.

Zhenya is surprised to see Crosby's name on the Hickory roster, too — Zhenya thought they'd start him in Williamsport based on his age alone. Then again, Zhenya and everyone else in the organization knows they're trying to fast-track Crosby as much as they can, so maybe it's less of a surprise than it could be.

The real shock comes when Crosby corners Zhenya during locker clean-out the day before they head for Hickory. Zhenya hates clean-out day, mostly because it's a pain in the ass, but also because it starts early in the morning so they can finish before lunch. The team has to be back in the evening to load up the bus for Hickory, and Zhenya still has to pack his suitcase. It makes him cranky, even though he knows it's coming every year.

Crosby interrupts him while he's sorting through socks. He looks like he's about to start wringing his hands, so Zhenya tries to school his features into something less of a scowl.

He's not exactly successful, because Crosby doesn't look at him when he says, "Would you — I mean, you don't have to say yes, and if you already have plans — but do you — could we be roommates? In Hickory?"

Zhenya stares at him, poleaxed, and when Crosby looks up, he immediately flushes and ducks his head again. He looks terribly nervous, as though he wants to swallow his tongue.

"Okay," Zhenya finds himself saying. "Can be roommates."

Crosby looks up again, and his smile is that blinding one Zhenya's only seen a handful of times.

Zhenya regrets his decision immediately.

*

Zhenya is attracted to boys. It's a fact about him just like the fact that he is right-handed and he batted .312 as a fifteen-year-old on the Metallurg junior team. He mostly doesn't think about it, except when it's unavoidable.

When he was younger, his mama said he'd grow into liking girls, be more interested as he got older, but he's nineteen and he doesn't give girls much more than a passing thought. He likes them well enough, has made out with one of the dancers at the athletic center in Magnitogorsk more than once, but. He spends more time thinking about — and, carefully, cautiously, _not_ watching — his teammates. Zhenya knows what that says about him, but no one else seems to have noticed. He doesn't plan to give anyone the opportunity, either.

He has crushes on teammates sometimes — he certainly crushed hard on Martire their first season together — but for the most part, he locks that part of himself away. It's unimportant, and besides that, it's a distraction from baseball.

Better to shut it out than to dwell on it.

*

**Hickory Crawdads, 2006**

Zhenya and Sidney are placed with a woman named Gail who lives near the ballpark. Gail is in her sixties, has three cats, and is a former employee of one of the furniture factories. Now retired, she houses baseball players and volunteers at the Hickory Motor Speedway. Zhenya knows all this because she tells them her life story in the fifteen-minute drive from the ballpark to her house.

She's a little intense, but she seems okay. She also has a pickup truck they can use for transportation, which Zhenya is eternally grateful for.

The house isn't huge, which means Zhenya and Sidney are sharing the master bedroom upstairs. Gail tells them she converted it to the guest room after her husband died; she stays in the smaller room on the first floor.

The room itself is pretty big, with two twin beds, two closets, and an attached bathroom. There's also a small alcove — Gail calls it a "reading nook" — with a desk where they can keep their laptops for skyping home.

"I know it's a little cozy," Gail says when she shows them the room, "but you're welcome to use the rest of the house, too."

"It's fine," Sidney assures her, and Zhenya tries to look as if he agrees. It's not that he minds sharing a room, but he'd hoped for a little more privacy than this seems to offer.

"I'll let you get yourselves settled in, then. Let me know if you need anything," Gail says, patting them both on the shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

Sidney immediately drops his bag on the bed to the right. He looks over his shoulder at Zhenya. "Is it okay if I take this one?"

Zhenya knows it's not really a question — Sidney's particularities are legendary at this point — so he waves him on. "Is fine."

They unpack their bags in silence. Zhenya tries to think of things to say, something to start a conversation, but he can't think of anything besides the new season here in Hickory. He doesn't really want to talk shop right now — there was enough of that on the bus, not to mention more of it to come — so he doesn't say anything, letting the silence stretch out between them almost uncomfortably.

They're rescued by the tinny sound of Zhenya's ringtone, though he has to dig through the pile of clothes he's dumped on his bed to find it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, G, it's Cammo, me and Hoops are going to get pizza, you wanna come?"

Zhenya starts to say yes when he realizes Sidney is listening in. "Mm, I bring Sidney too?" he asks.

There's a pause on the other end of the line before Cammo says, a little too casually, "Yeah, sure, why not?"

"I'm ask, make sure," Zhenya offers. He turns to Sidney, who looks wide-eyed and mildly embarrassed at having eavesdropped (or maybe at being caught eavesdropping), even though they're in the same room. "You want pizza?"

"No, it's okay, I want to get settled —"

Zhenya doesn't let him finish. "We meet you there," he tells Cammo.

"Okay, cool, I'll text you directions," Cammo answers back, and Zhenya hears him tell Hoops, "The Croz is coming," before the line cuts out.

"We go," Zhenya says and starts digging around for his wallet.

"You didn't have to do that," Sidney says.

Zhenya doesn't know how to answer that, so he says nothing.

"You don't have to babysit me or anything," Sidney continues. "I can take care of myself."

Zhenya rolls his eyes at Sidney's petulance but grabs his wrist and repeats, "We _go_." He half-drags Sidney out of the room and down the stairs to get the truck keys from Gail.

They decide to walk — or rather, _Sidney_ decides to walk, twisting his arm out of Zhenya's grip and pushing out the door.

Zhenya says a quick goodbye to Gail, who waves at him and goes back to watching television, and heads outside. He has to jog to catch up with Sidney at the corner.

"You go wrong way, Cammo says is other way."

Sidney turns to glare at him. "Who said I was going with you?"

Zhenya resists the urge to roll his eyes _again_ , and instead says, "Why you being stupid? Is pizza. Is no big deal."

He tugs on Sidney's arm, trying to get him to start back down the street. Sidney yanks his elbow away and snaps, "Leave me the fuck alone, Malkin."

Zhenya throws his hands up. "Fine. You walk this way, you starve. I'm get pizza. See you later, _Crosby_." He spins on his heel and stomps off, not waiting to see if Sidney tries to catch up.

Zhenya doesn't get why Sidney snapped the way he did; there was no reason for it. All he did was try to get him to go out with the American guys, which he never did, not even once, during training. It's dumb. Sidney's dumb. This is going to be a terrible, dumb summer. Zhenya kicks a piece of gravel.

He's glad for the fifteen-minute walk to Frankie's Pizza, because it gives him time to cool off. Cammo and Hoops have already staked out a table, an eight-top, which means there are probably more people on the way.

"Where's the Croz?" Hoops asks when Zhenya sits down. "Also, dude, did you walk? You coulda called us!"

"Sidney not coming, say he don't want pizza or see your stupid face," Zhenya says. "I'm walk because is nice out." He grins and shakes his sweaty hair at Hoops.

"Gross, dude, c'mon, stop," Hoops laughs.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Comrade Malkin," says a voice from behind Zhenya.

He stops torturing Hoops and turns to acknowledge, "Motherfucking Chad."

Chad smirks and sits down, picking up a menu. "No Croz?" Zhenya shrugs. "Thank god. What a fucking weirdo."

Zhenya bristles a little at that. Sure, Sidney is weird, but he's still team, and you don't belittle team.

"We're thinking chicken parm and pepperoni and mushroom, anything you guys wanna request?" Cammo interjects before motherfucking Chad can say anything more about Sidney.

"I want Hawaiian," Chad says, and they all turn to Zhenya.

"G?" Hoops asks. "Any requests?"

"I'm eat whatever."

"Cool." Hoops flags down the waitress, Cammo starts chirping Chad about his newest tattoo, and Zhenya sits back, letting the conversation roll over him and staunchly refusing to feel guilty about leaving Sidney behind.

It eats at him anyway, and when they settle the tab two hours later, Zhenya finds himself ordering a cheese pizza to go. He makes Hoops and Cammo drop him off at Gail's so he doesn't have to carry it all the way back.

Gail is still watching TV when Zhenya lets himself into the house. He bypasses the kitchen and goes straight for the stairs. The bedroom door is shut, so he knocks before turning the knob.

"Sidney? Is me. I'm bring food."

Zhenya opens the door somewhat tentatively, not sure what to expect. Sidney is sitting on his bed, reading. He doesn't look up, just turns the page and continues to read.

"You want pizza? I get you just cheese, I don't know what you like." Zhenya stands there for a moment before setting the pizza box on the desk.

"I already ate." Sidney frowns down at his book and turns another page. Zhenya doesn't think he's actually reading.

Zhenya sighs. "Sorry," he mumbles, not entirely sure what he's apologizing for. "I'm watch TV with Gail."

"You don't have to." It's pitched like a question, which gives Zhenya pause. Sidney looks up from his book. "I had french fries from McDonald's."

It sounds like a confession to a priest, and Zhenya has to laugh.

"McDonald's is not food. You eat pizza."

Sidney chews on his lip. "You didn't have to."

"You say that lots."

Sidney squirms like he wants to shrug but knows he does that a lot, too. "Well… it's true."

Zhenya rolls his eyes. He picks up the pizza box and sits down on the floor. "Food's get cold. We need eat it quick."

Sidney scoots forward. "Didn't you eat at the pizza place?"

"Yes, but all this talk I'm hungry again, you know?"

Sidney slides off the bed and reaches for the pizza box. "But you brought this for me; why should I share?" He picks up the box and puts it in his lap, open end turned away from Zhenya.

"Because I'm best."

It startles a laugh out of Sidney. "Okay, fine, fine, you win. I'll let you have one slice." He offers the box to Zhenya, only to pull it back again. "But just one, okay? I mean it!"

"Okay, okay, _davai_ , just one," Zhenya agrees, reaching for the box.

Sidney lets Zhenya have three.

*

They don't talk about whatever set Sidney off that day, but they never really have an opportunity. Zhenya means to talk about it, but their lives have turned into the never-ending cycle of practice and games and travel and sleep. When games go late, Zhenya crashes into bed and doesn't get up until Sidney yanks the covers off in the late morning, usually after he's been up for at least an hour.

By the time an off-day finally arrives, Zhenya has mostly forgotten about the incident. He and Sidney have become good friends and whatever weirdness there was at the start of the season has dissipated. Maybe it's because Hoops and Chad are both gone, called up to Lynchburg, or maybe it's because Zhenya and Sidney spend so much of their free time together. They've become practically inseparable off the field, even spending that first off-day at a zoo and watching the All-Star Game in the evening, bitching about "this one counts" and groaning when Hoffman gives up a two-strike triple to Young to end the game.

"Someday, the National League will get it back," Sidney promises fiercely as he turns off the television. Zhenya has discovered that Sidney has strong feelings about League loyalty and the sanctity of pitchers who bat.

"Maybe we're there to enjoy it," Zhenya says.

Sidney turns to him, wide-eyed. "Don't jinx us, Geno!"

Zhenya rolls his eyes. "Sorry."

Sidney shifts on the couch. "It's okay — I just don't wanna get ahead of myself, you know?"

Zhenya nods. He tries not to think too much about the future beyond the current season, but he's usually not very good at it. Zhenya daydreams about making the big leagues, but he knows — has seen firsthand — that it doesn't work out for everyone. He's certain it will work out for Sidney; he's too valuable to the Pirates and too good at what he does for it not to work out. Zhenya is pretty confident about himself, too, though he'd never say it out loud.

*

The night before their second off-day, Zhenya and Sidney sneak into the ballpark after closing to watch the Perseid meteor shower. They spread the quilt from Zhenya's bed out in the outfield, away from the worst of the sunflower shell patches. It's a chilly night for August, so they huddle together under the other blanket they nicked from Gail's house.

"Do you think it's dark enough to see them?" Sidney asks. Though the park itself is dark, there's light from the streets surrounding them.

"Sure." Zhenya doesn't know if it's true or not; he's never paid that much attention to the stars. He's only here because Sidney asked him to be.

"I hope so," Sidney says, though it sounds as if it's mostly to himself.

They lapse into silence, both of them craning their necks up toward the night sky. Zhenya strains his eyes, searching for any sort of streak of light that might be a meteor. He assumes Sidney is doing the same, quiet and warm beside him.

The search is boring, though, and it's late, even for them. They slump lower along with the moon, until they wind up lying side by side, staring up into the midnight. Zhenya only knows Sidney is still awake because he's mumbling the words to that song about Shakira's hips. It's terrible but monotonous, and Zhenya feels himself fading. He's half-asleep when Sidney clutches his arm, startling him back into consciousness.

"Look! There! Did you see?" Sidney whisper-shouts in his ear. He's pointing up at the sky, as if Zhenya will be able to look right down his arm to where his finger is aimed and see a shooting star. "Did you see it?"

Zhenya blinks slowly, squinting, and then, there, a faint streak across the sky, followed by two more. Zhenya smiles and turns to look at Sidney, thinking that must be it, but Sidney squeezes his arm again. Zhenya looks back up at the sky, and there's a slew of meteors, dazzling streaks of light across the sky. It's beautiful, breath-taking, and he understands why Sidney wanted to do this.

They watch the light show for a while, time slowing down around them as they get lost in it. Zhenya starts to fade again, his eyes heavy. He wonders sleepily if they'll just stay out here all night and be woken by the maintenance crew in the morning.

"Hey, G," Sidney whispers as the meteors become fewer and farther between, "can I tell you something?"

"Sure," Zhenya says, only half-listening.

Sidney rustles beside him, shifting onto his side. "You have to promise not to tell anyone."

Zhenya glances at him. Sidney fidgets, backlit by the street lamps on the other side of the outfield wall. He's not looking at Zhenya, head angled away from him even though he's leaning into Zhenya's space. "Promise, Sidney."

Sidney tilts his head toward Zhenya. "You swear?"

"Yes." He huffs a little, annoyed. If Sidney wants to tell him something, he should just say it.

"Okay, well. I'm gay," Sidney blurts. "I like boys — guys, not girls. I like them a lot, and it's not going to change. You can't tell anybody, okay, you promised." He collapses, rolling onto his back, like the announcement took all of his strength.

It takes a little bit for Zhenya to parse Sidney's words. And then his stomach lurches, his world tilting on its axis. "Why you tell me this?"

Sid lets out a startled, somewhat hysterical laugh, tilts his head away from Zhenya. "I just. I wanted to tell you. If we're — if we're going to play together, in Pittsburgh, I wanted you to know."

Zhenya considers this, trying to read the words Sidney _isn't_ saying on top of the words he _is_. The strangeness at the start of the season suddenly makes more sense, the way Sidney had reacted to the shared bedroom by lashing out at Zhenya.

He can feel Sidney shaking beside him, but he doesn't know if it's from nerves or because he's cold. Zhenya puts a hand on Sidney's, and he goes still.

This is probably the moment where he should tell Sid that he feels the same way, that he finds their teammates attractive more often than not. That the idea of liking men and falling in love with a man terrifies him even though he's had time to make peace with the idea that he might want to. That he has no idea what would happen if people found that out about him.

Zhenya barely knows how to say all that in Russian, let alone in English, but Sidney has told him a big secret, so he can share one, too. He sits up, takes a deep breath, and says, "Me too."

Sidney looks at him again, sitting up so fast that Zhenya thinks he might have hurt himself. " _What_?"

Zhenya stutters in the face of Sid's intensity. "I — I like guys, too."

"Seriously? For real? You're not making fun of me or anything? Like, you want somebody's dick?"

Zhenya is glad it's too dark for Sidney to see his blush. He hasn't given much thought to the mechanics of it — it's not like he's ever dated anyone or anything — but. "Yes," he says. "Serious."

Sid flops back down. "Holy shit." He starts to giggle. It sounds a little hysterical. " _Holy shit_. I can't believe — I was sure you were gonna punch me or at least hate me."

Zhenya pushes at his shoulder. "Why you think I hate?"

It's the wrong thing to ask; Sidney stills beside him, holding himself carefully once again. "Not everyone's as good as you," he says. "You wouldn't have been the first friend I lost."

"Oh." Zhenya doesn't know how to respond to that, except to lie back down. And then he says, belatedly, "Thank you."

Sid looks at him, the whites of his eyes visible even in the dark. He lies back down as well, close but not quite touching. "For what?" he whispers.

"For telling. For trust. It's big news, you know?" Zhenya bumps his arm against Sidney's.

"Yeah," Sid says. "Yeah."

They lie there on the grass, arms touching but neither of them moving, until Zhenya starts to feel the dew seeping into his jeans.

"Sid," he whispers, "we need go soon."

They both sit up and start gathering themselves. Zhenya stands first and offers Sid his hand. Sid pulls himself up, but instead of moving away, he wraps Zhenya into a hug.

"Thank you," he says, warm breath against Zhenya's collar. "This was good."

*

A few days later, the team is on the road, staying in a hotel outside of Savannah. It's sticky-hot, humid, and the rattling air conditioner isn't doing much other than making noise. Zhenya can't get comfortable, and even if he could, his mind is racing. They had a rough game tonight, and he keeps running through his missteps, thinking about what he'll need to do tomorrow night to fix them. He sighs and tries to count sheep, but that makes him think about the farm they saw from the highway, which makes him think of open space, which reminds him of stargazing with Sid. He's been thinking about that a lot recently — too much, probably.

Zhenya rolls over, flipping his pillows, trying unsuccessfully to find a cool patch on the bed. Sid shifts in the bed across from him, lifting his head up, and Zhenya freezes. He hopes he hasn't woken Sidney up with his restlessness.

"Hey, Geno?"

 _Shit_. "Sorry for wake," Zhenya says softly.

"You didn't wake me up." Sidney rolls and gets out of bed.

Zhenya watches in the sliver of light from the window as Sid stumbles his way to the bathroom. Sidney flips the light on but doesn't shut the door. Zhenya can hear water running, and Sidney comes back with washcloths in his hands.

"Here, put this on your neck or back or wherever. It'll help cool you down." He tosses one of the cloths at Zhenya.

It lands with a wet sound on his arm. Zhenya picks it up and does as instructed, wriggling to settle the washcloth on his upper back. "Thanks."

"Our dorm at Shattuck didn't have A/C. It got pretty hot by the end of the school year, so a lot of us would keep washcloths in a bucket in our rooms in case we needed them."

It's a funny little anecdote, and it triggers another thought. "Hey, Sid?"

"Yeah?"

"I can ask you something?"

"Sure…"

Zhenya licks his lips. "You have boyfriends?"

"What?" Sid's voice is a little strangled.

Zhenya's embarrassed now. He mutters into his pillow, "Just wonder. You don't have to say."

There's a pregnant pause, during which Zhenya contemplates smothering himself with his pillow, but Sid finally says, "I had one in high school, at Shattuck. And there's a guy back home I hook up with sometimes, but we're not, like, dating." He pauses. "Why?"

"I'm never have," Zhenya confesses.

"Really? But you're—"

"Russian," Zhenya supplies. "Don't know anyone, except you."

"Oh." Sidney is quiet long enough that Zhenya thinks he's fallen asleep. "Does anyone else know? About you, I mean."

Zhenya shakes his head. "No. Just you."

"Not even your parents?" Sidney asks, barely above a whisper.

"I never —" He stops, tries again. "Maybe they wonder, but I never say."

"D'you think you'll tell them? Like, if you meet someone you want to date?"

Zhenya sucks in a breath. The thought is terrifying, and Sidney must realize that because he continues on.

"I know it's not my business, but if you — If you want to tell them, and it goes bad. You can come stay with us in Canada for the winter. My parents won't mind."

Zhenya flushes hot all over at the thought, fondness and embarrassment and terror all settling in the pit of his stomach. "Thanks, Sid," he says softly.

"Of course. Now get some sleep." Sidney shifts again, obviously settling, as if nothing more need be said.

*

**Magnitogorsk, 2006**

The season ends in a whirlwind, the summer coming to a close in a heat wave that makes the cooler climate of Magnitogorsk a relief, even though Zhenya knows that the winter to come will leave him wishing for the heat and humidity of America.

Most of Zhenya's time in Magnitogorsk is occupied with eating his mother's cooking, watching soaps with his father, and going out with Denis. He keeps up with his workouts at the local gym and plays pick-up hockey with his friends. It's fun, to an extent, but it isn't too long before Zhenya finds himself counting down the days until his flight back to America.

He has been thinking about what Sidney said — about telling his family that he's gay. He knows he'll have to do it eventually, if he meets someone he wants to introduce them to, but.

It's not that he thinks his parents will stop loving him. It's just that… it might be difficult, for a while. His family has never been particularly outwardly religious — they haven't attended church with any consistency since before Zhenya and Denis started playing sports — but he knows his mother still prays to the saints. And even if she didn't, Russia hasn't exactly been progressive when it comes to homosexuality.

So he frets, worrying away at what to do and whether to do it _now_ , or wait at least until he meets someone he wants to be with long-term.

He shoves away the insidious thought that he wouldn't mind dating Sidney. Sidney is his friend, and he has that hook-up to go home to in the offseason. He probably wouldn't want to date a teammate, anyway.

He's distracted enough that Denis pulls him aside one day in December when Papa sends them to the store for laundry soap and milk biscuits.

"You have a girl waiting for you in Florida?"

"What?" Zhenya asks, blindsided as they navigate the icy sidewalk.

"You're not yourself," Denis says. "You act like you can't leave soon enough, even though spring training doesn't start for two more months."

"Sorry," Zhenya mutters. "Just a lot on my mind."

"Is it a girl?" Denis asks again, dogged.

"No," Zhenya answers firmly.

They walk in silence for a block, and then Denis says, "Is it a boy?"

" _What_?" Zhenya sputters again. He's always had a terrible poker face when confronted directly. He stops dead in his tracks, feeling faint. "How did you — how —"

"Zhenya." Denis grips his arm, tight enough that Zhenya can focus on it. It's grounding. "I'm not blind or stupid. Now breathe, before you cause a scene."

Zhenya breathes as instructed and blows it out slowly.

"Okay?"

Zhenya takes another breath. "Yes."

Denis releases his arm and starts walking again, and Zhenya has to hurry to catch up.

"Does anyone else know?" Zhenya asks, not sure if he wants the answer.

"Mama and Papa might, but I didn't tell them, if that's what you're asking. I doubt your friends here are smart enough to notice anything except their own dicks, let alone yours, so probably no one you haven't told has figured it out." Denis glances at him. " _Have_ you told anyone?"

"Only Si— one of my teammates."

He would say more, but they're at the corner shop. They don't talk while they're inside, but Denis picks up the thread again on the walk home.

"Why'd you tell him, your teammate?" It's not accusatory, simply curious.

"He's like me." Zhenya doesn't tell him how he found out. It might be silly, but the meteor shower is private, an intimate, secret thing Zhenya wants to keep close.

"You like him?"

Zhenya hesitates, but he nods after a moment. "I do," he admits, eyes down as he navigates around a patch of ice on the sidewalk.

"And? Does he like you?"

Zhenya shrugs one shoulder. "We're friends."

"You haven't told him you like him, then," Denis says, always seeing right through Zhenya.

"It's not that simple," Zhenya insists.

"How do you know?" Denis asks.

"It's not," Zhenya says again, irritated that Denis is pushing this. "Leave it alone."

They're nearly home when Denis catches Zhenya's arm again. "I know you like to take your time on these things, Zhenya, but I think you should tell your friend how you feel. Maybe he doesn't like you that way, but maybe he does. You'll never know if you don't ask." Denis squeezes his elbow. "Think about it, okay?"

"Okay," Zhenya says. "I'll think about it."

*

**Grapefruit League, Spring Training, 2007**

The game against the Mets in Port St. Lucie is delayed by rain and then goes into extra innings, and it’s nearly one in the morning by the time they get on the bus. It’s three hours back to Bradenton, so everyone is trying to get some sleep, and the bus quickly settles.

Zhenya can’t sleep, still too wired from the game, so he stares out the window at the dim lights off the highway. Sid is dead to the world beside him, eye mask on and mouth open as he snores into Zhenya’s shoulder. The bus hits a pothole, and Sid’s head slips down Zhenya’s right side. Sid jerks upward, batting at his eye mask but not removing it. Zhenya knows from experience that he may not even actually be awake.

"Are we stopping?" Sidney murmurs.

"Not yet." Zhenya wraps his arm around Sid’s shoulders and pulls him close. "Sleep, Sid, I wake you when we there."

Sidney shifts a little before he relaxes and lets his head sink down.

Zhenya dozes fitfully himself, head resting against the cool glass of the bus window and hand in Sid's hair.

He wakes when the bus stops, Sid still draped awkwardly across his shoulder. Zhenya shifts, and Sid stirs, pulling off his sleeping mask as he sits up. His hair is flat on one side and sticking straight out on the other, where Zhenya had threaded his fingers through it, and Zhenya feels such an overwhelming sense of fondness that it almost takes his breath away.

"Sorry," Sid says, glancing ruefully down at Zhenya's collar. He wipes at his mouth, which is when Zhenya realizes there's a patch of drool on his shirt.

He shrugs and looks back at Sid. "It dries quick."

Sid looks like he wants to say something else, opens his mouth even, but he just stares. Zhenya stares back.

"You guys spending the night on the bus or what?"

Marky-Mark's question startles Zhenya from whatever strange reverie he was slipping into, and he realizes that the rest of the team is shuffling its way off the bus. He and Sid gather their things and follow suit, stopping at the exit to grab their duffles.

The dorms they're in for spring training are nothing fancy, but at least everyone has only one roommate and private bathrooms. He and Sid ride the elevator up with Marky-Mark and Boomer and Josey in silence, no one really awake enough for conversation. They peel off for their respective rooms with scarcely a nod of acknowledgement among them.

Sid opens the door to their room, holding it open and then walking it closed so it doesn't slam, just like he always does. Another wave of fondness hits Zhenya, and he drops his bag on the floor before turning to Sid.

Sid is frowning in that way that sometimes means someone's done something rude and sometimes just means he's tired. Sidney grumbles to himself, something about cereal and the pizza they left in the fridge before the road trip, but Zhenya doesn't care.

He grabs Sidney's wrist and, without thinking too much about it, leans down to kiss him.

Sidney inhales a gasp before pulling back. "What was that?" he asks, looking wide awake, a strange timbre to his voice.

Zhenya steps back, letting go of Sid's wrist and shaking his head. "Sorry, I'm — shouldn't have — sorry, Sid, I —"

He tries to run, to hide in the bathroom, but Sidney reels him back in by grabbing his sleeve and holding on. "No, wait, Geno, hey, buddy, listen. Listen."

Zhenya freezes, looking at the floor, his face flaming with embarrassment and regret. "Sorry," he whispers again.

"Stop saying that," Sidney snaps, making him jump. "Look, just. Let's sit down, okay?"

He herds Zhenya over to the couch, and they both sit. Zhenya tries to make himself small, to keep from bumping against Sid, but the couch is barely big enough for two normal-sized people, never mind two baseball players.

Sidney doesn't seem to have the same compulsion, knocking his knee into Zhenya's before saying gently, "You kissed me. Why?"

Zhenya stares at their knees and whispers, "Seem like a good idea."

"Yeah?" Sidney whispers back.

"If you don't like," Zhenya starts, but he falls silent when Sidney puts a hand on his.

"I did like it," he murmurs. Zhenya glances up, but Sidney is looking at their hands. "I like you. You just — I wasn't expecting it."

The tips of his ears are pink, as if _he's_ the one who should be embarrassed. When he finally tilts his head back up, his cheeks are flushed, too.

"I'd like it if you kissed me again," Sidney says, voice calm, though Zhenya can feel his hand trembling slightly.

Zhenya swallows nervously, but he leans in slowly. This time, Sidney meets him halfway.

*

For the rest of spring training and into the high-A season in Lynchburg, they sneak makeout sessions and handjobs between the dull routines of the season.

They don't get to enjoy it for long, though. Barely a month into the season, Zhenya gets called up to Altoona, to replace an outfielder with a season-ending knee injury. They're on the road in Wilmington, and he has to be on a plane to Portland at six in the morning. There's hardly even time to say goodbye.

Sidney follows him into their hotel room and flops down on one of the beds, flinging an arm over his face. Zhenya pulls his duffle out of the closet and starts throwing clothes into it.

"I hope you're not taking all my shirts," Sidney mutters from under his arm, though there's a smile on his face when Zhenya glances at him.

"Maybe you help me pack, I don't take your clothes."

"Maybe if you put your clothes in the drawers instead of flinging them all over the room, you'd be able to pack without help," Sidney retorts, still smirking.

"Maybe," Zhenya says, moving quietly toward the bed, " _you_ don't throw all clothes on floor when we make out, I don't mix up shirts."

Sidney moves his arm away from his face, but before he can fire off another retort, Zhenya tackles him. Sid yelps, and they wrestle until Sidney flips them over, pressing his weight down. "So it's my fault you're incapable of cleaning up after yourself?" he asks, trying and failing to look stern.

Zhenya thrusts his hips upward. "Yes," he says. "You worst."

Sidney leans forward, their noses brushing. "You sure about that? I thought I was the best."

"Worst _and_ best," Zhenya assures him, lifting his head up just enough to capture Sidney's lips in a kiss.

Sidney kisses back, but eventually he pulls away. "C'mon, you still gotta pack."

"Don't want to," Zhenya grumps. "Rather make out with you."

"We can make out some more _after_ you finish packing."

Together, they finish sorting through their clothes and gear for all of Zhenya's things. It's well past midnight by the time they're done, and Zhenya is not looking forward to his very early morning. Sidney sets the alarm for him, and they crawl into bed, cuddling close.

"Gonna miss you," Zhenya whispers.

"It's gonna be weird without you," Sidney agrees. "But it'll be okay."

"Maybe you get called up, too," Zhenya says.

"Maybe." Sidney finds his hand in the dark and kisses his palm before twining their fingers together. "You should come visit Nova Scotia when the season ends."

"Yeah?" Zhenya knows what that means — Sidney wants him to meet his parents. He's met them before, of course, when they came to Florida during spring training last year, but this time would be different. "I like that."

"I'd like it too," Sidney says, kissing Zhenya's fingers again. "We better get some sleep."

"Goodnight, Sid." He doesn't say _I love you_ , but he thinks it.

"G'night, G," Sidney murmurs.

*

**Altoona Curve, 2007**

The adjustment to Altoona is difficult. There's less focus on fielding, more focus on batting, and while Zhenya thought he was solid on both fronts, he quickly learns he isn't. Coach Leiper wants him to master hitting off-speed pitches while maintaining his .280 average. It's not impossible, but it's a struggle at first.

Meanwhile, he has to sneak around to find time to talk to Sid. Their schedules make it difficult — though the daily routine of practice, video review, game is the same, the double-A team seems to travel twice as much and twice as far. They can't always call while they're on the road, and even at home, Zhenya finds himself rarely alone. They make do with texting and emails as much as possible, saving most of their calls for days off.

Eventually, Zhenya settles into the rhythm of double-A, and once it happens, everything shifts a little. Suddenly, it seems like all of Zhenya's throws from the warning track find their marks, all his hits drop into the dead zone between infield and outfield, all his attempts to advance come in just under the tag. And to top it all off, the team is _winning_.

The Curve is at the top of the division heading into the All-Star break, and no one is surprised when Zhenya is selected to the Futures team.

The trip is a whirlwind: the league flies the selected players to San Diego, puts them in box seats for the home run derby and the major league game, does a meet-and-greet with the major league players, treating them like the superstars they're supposed to become.

The Futures game itself is almost an afterthought, though once they're on the field, Zhenya's competitive nature swings back in. He plays well, scoring what turns out to be the game-winning run in the top of the seventh on a sacrifice bunt from Claude Giroux. When he watches the highlights later, Joe Buck jokes that it's the one nice thing a Pirate and a Phillie will ever do for each other.

Zhenya doesn't expect to hear anything from Sid about it — they never get to catch each other's games, even on the radio, and Sidney only had one day off, not three like Zhenya — but when Zhenya finally gets to check his phone late that night, there's a long voicemail waiting for him, detailing all the filthy things Sidney would like to do to him to celebrate the win.

It's far too late on the east coast for Zhenya to call him back without waking him, so he settles for texting a series of smiley-faces and a promise to call back in the morning.

*

After the All-Star break, the season slows down again. Zhenya's batting average drops back to normal levels, but the team keeps winning. There are rumblings about the rosters for the upcoming Arizona Fall League, and Zhenya's name is at the top of the list. Sidney's name is getting tossed around too — he's been playing like a man possessed down in Lynchburg — but any time Zhenya mentions it, Sidney hushes him quickly.

"Don't jinx it," Sidney chides when it comes up over skype. Sidney has the day off and Zhenya's game has been rained out, so they have an impromptu date complete with burgers and ice cream sundaes courtesy of the twin McDonald's with free wifi.

"It's not jinx if I _know_ ," Zhenya says, sure that if he believes in it fiercely enough, it'll happen.

"Maybe," Sidney concedes, though he looks a little hunted. He changes the subject. "Have you bought your plane tickets yet? My parents want to know when you're coming."

Zhenya has not bought his tickets. He's told himself that he's waiting on the dates for Arizona, but the truth is he's avoiding it. If he buys plane tickets to Nova Scotia, he'll have to tell his parents. His mother has made noises about him being gone from home for so long, and he hasn't figured out how to tell her that he won't be home until almost December this year, let alone that he's going to spend an entire month in Canada with Sidney. Unlike Sidney's parents, Zhenya's don't know that he's gay, or that he's dating someone. Denis may think he should tell them, and that they won't be too upset about it, but it's one thing to think it and another thing entirely to find out for certain.

"I buy soon," he promises, ignoring the disapproving press of Sidney's lips.

"You'd better," Sidney tells him. "It'll be really expensive if you wait too long."

Zhenya waves a dismissive hand. "It's fine. You see."

Sidney eyes him, like he's already anticipating Zhenya complaining about how expensive the plane tickets are.

Zhenya huffs. "Fine, I buy tomorrow. Happy?"

"Yes," Sidney responds with a grin.

True to his word, Zhenya buys his plane tickets the next morning. He doesn't have to be at the field until later, so he sucks it up and calls his mother, too.

He means to tell her straight away, but she starts talking about Denis' new girlfriend and how the neighbors' cat keeps leaving dead birds on the doorstep and how the weather has already started to turn chilly, even though it's still August. It's a comforting litany, the sort of daily gossip she used to give him when he came home from road trips with his junior league team. 

"You haven't been home since March," Mama accuses when Zhenya finally works up the courage to tell her he won't be coming home just yet. "And now you'll go to another foreign country without even a visit to your parents!"

"I'm sorry, Mama," Zhenya says sincerely. "But there's only a month between the end of the season and the report date for Arizona. I'd come home only to leave again, and with the jetlag..."

"Bah!" Mama grumbles, though Zhenya can tell she's coming around. "Will you at least be home for the New Year?"

"Yes, Mama, of course. And I'll bring you more of that peach jam you like."

"Oh, well, in that case," Mama says.

He hesitates, knowing he could end the call here and let things lie for another time, but his mother must sense that he has something else on his mind.

"Zhenya?"

"Mama, I met someone," he blurts.

"Oh?"

"We — I." He stops and swallows. "Sidney and I, we —"

He can see the moment when she understands, the image on the screen freezing on her wide eyes. "Oh, _Zhenya_ ," she says, and the image jumps so he can see her hand over her mouth. He doesn't think he's imagining the tears in her eyes.

"Mama?" he asks weakly, preparing himself for the worst.

"He's the one in Nova Scotia?" she says slowly. "You're going to see him?"

Zhenya nods mutely, staring down at his keyboard. "His parents — they invited me." He doesn't tell her he has a standing invitation to stay, if she doesn't want him to come back to Russia.

"And you'll be there for a month? Just to meet his parents?" she asks pointedly.

"I haven't seen him since I was called up to Altoona." Zhenya bites his lip and then confesses, "Mama, I love him."

It's the first time he's said it to anyone, but it's the truth. He loves Sidney fiercely, and he hopes his Mama understands.

"And will you bring him to Magnitogorsk?" Mama asks, hesitant this time, as if she isn't sure what answer she wants.

Zhenya looks up, into the eyes of his mother on the screen. "If you want me to, I would like that very much," he tells her.

*

The Arizona Fall League invitations go out with less than two weeks left in the regular season. Both Zhenya and Sidney are on the roster for the Saguaros, and Zhenya leaves a smug voicemail on Sidney's phone about his prescience. Sidney calls back to say, "It's not fair to leave me messages in a language I don't know, you fucker."

"You want know what I say?" Zhenya asks.

"Yes."

"You learn Russian, then you know," Zhenya says. He supposes he deserves it when Sidney lets out a noise of outrage and hangs up on him. He doesn't stay mad for long, though; he calls back a minute later to discuss the plans for the trip to Nova Scotia.

"My parents will probably insist on taking you sight-seeing," Sidney warns him. "They'll also probably try to get you to convince me to stay at the house, even though I told them already that we're going to be at the cabin most of the time."

"What if I want stay at the house?" Zhenya asks, mostly to be a shit.

"Then you can say goodbye to any chance we might have sex while we're there. I'm not having sex with you while my sister is in the next room over."

"We stay at cabin then," Zhenya decides.

"Yeah, I thought that's what you'd say."

*

They haven't had sex yet, or at least, not the kind of sex Zhenya saw in the porn videos he found on the internet when he was trying and failing to convince himself he didn't like men. There was no privacy during spring training, the walls of the Pirates' dormitory too thin, and no time in Lynchburg — the three short weeks Zhenya was there were spent mostly on the road.

They've talked about it, though, both in the abstract and in the definite. Sidney likes to talk, to tell Zhenya what he likes and what he wants to do when they see each other again. His litany is a comfort and a directive; Zhenya knows exactly how best to please him with the same sort of certainty that he knows what kind of pitch is coming toward him when he's at the plate.

It's thrilling and a little terrifying. Zhenya feels like he's on the precipice. He'll take the leap, just like he took the leap when he signed with the Pirates. From here, there is no going back.

*

**Nova Scotia, 2007**

Zhenya is greeted at the airport in Halifax by Sidney's eleven-year-old sister holding a sign with his name on it in glitter-pen.

"Squid didn't want to park the car," Taylor explains as she leads Zhenya out to the pick-up area. "He said it costs too much money, but really he just didn't want to sign any autographs."

"He sign lots of autographs at airports?" Zhenya asks with a smile.

"Yep." Taylor smacks her lips on the _p_ as she stands on her toes and cranes her neck to watch the line of cars. "The cost of doing business," she says in an exaggeratedly deep voice, rocking back onto her heels. "That's what dad says anyway. There he is, finally."

Taylor waves frantically at Sidney's Range Rover, even though he's already pulling up to the curb in front of them. He parks and gets out of the car, and Zhenya has to take a moment to just look at him. Sidney's face and arms are bronze from the long summer, his hair over-gelled as though he's trying to impress someone. Zhenya loves him.

"Hi, Sid," he says.

"Hey, G, good flight?" Sidney asks as he takes Zhenya's duffle and puts it in the trunk.

Zhenya hands him his other bag. "Not so bad. Short turnover —"

"Layover —"

"Layover in Dallas, but it's fine."

Sidney closes the trunk and turns back to Zhenya. "All set."

Zhenya isn't sure if he should go for a hug or wait for later, when they aren't in public. Sidney fidgets with his necklace, like he's nervous, though he has no reason to be.

The blare of the car horn breaks the moment. "Are you guys done back there?" Taylor says. "I'm starving."

Sidney rolls his eyes and says as he heads to the driver's side, "She's always starving these days. She's got a hollow leg, I swear."

Taylor starts pointing out landmarks from the moment they leave the airport, explaining the landscape and history of Halifax as they drive. Zhenya makes the appropriate noises of someone half-listening, while Sidney doesn't say anything at all, apparently content with letting Taylor babble on the drive to their parents' house.

Sidney's elbow is on the console between them, and Zhenya bumps it with his own, once, twice, before leaving their arms touching gently. Sidney shifts a little and moves his arm so they're aligned down the middle of the console. At the next light, Sidney turns his wrist and threads their fingers together loosely. Zhenya's palm is a little sweaty, but Sid doesn't seem to mind, squeezing a little when Zhenya twitches.

Taylor pauses in her detailed descriptions of all the lighthouses in Nova Scotia to comment, "Gross," and Sidney mock-scowls at her in the rearview. He doesn't let go, though.

They hold hands for the rest of the drive.

*

They have dinner with Sid's parents and Taylor. Zhenya thought it might be awkward, but Troy and Trina treat him like any guest, not like their son's boyfriend.

After dessert and coffee, they do try to convince them to stay the night, but Sidney puts his foot down. "I already told you we're staying at the cabin, Mom. We'll be around tomorrow, I promise."

Trina looks like she wants to protest, but Troy puts a placating hand on her arm. "They haven't seen each other in months, Trina. I'm sure they'd like some time to themselves."

"Yeah, Mom," Taylor pipes up, "let them make out where we don't have to see it."

Zhenya chokes on his last bite of cheesecake, and Sidney looks like he wants to die. Trina is bright red, but Troy seems to be holding back a laugh.

"We're just gonna…go," Sidney finally squeaks out.

Trina nods but doesn't quite look at him, and Troy waves them away, still biting back a grin. "Have a good night, boys. We'll see you for lunch?"

"For sure," Sidney promises. "Geno?"

Zhenya wipes his face with his napkin and stands quickly. "Thank you for dinner," he tells the Crosbys. "See you tomorrow."

"Sorry about all that," Sidney says once they're in the car.

"It's not problem," Zhenya assures him. "I like your family."

"Thanks." The light is too dim to know for certain, but Zhenya thinks Sidney is still blushing.

The drive to the cabin is longer than Zhenya expects, and it's fully dark by the time the car rolls to a stop. It's cool and quiet when Zhenya gets out of the car, only the nighttime sounds of insects in the trees and water on the lake audible. There's a path down to the water marked by solar lights, and Zhenya looks at it longingly. "We swim?"

"We can go swimming tomorrow morning if you want," Sidney tells Zhenya as he pulls his bags from the trunk. "Might be kinda cold tonight."

"I swim in cold water," Zhenya says.

"You sure about that?" Sid asks. "Weren't you the one who complained about the cold showers in Hickory all last year?"

"It's lake, it's different," Zhenya insists.

"Let's put your stuff in the house first, and then we can go down to the water, see if you still wanna swim in it."

The air off the water is colder than up at the house, but the lake is so tempting. "We go in?" Zhenya asks hopefully. "Please?"

"In our clothes?" Sid asks.

"We take off clothes," Zhenya says, already tugging off his shirt. When he looks up, Sid is still eyeing him incredulously. "Sid?"

In answer, Sidney pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion and stands still. Zhenya stares at him, drinking in the planes of his torso, the cut of his collarbones, the paleness of his shoulders in the moonlight. He stares long enough that Sid starts to giggle uncomfortably. It pulls him out of his reverie, and he turns to taking off his shorts. He leaves his briefs on, and when he glances back to Sid, he sees that Sid has left on his boxer-briefs.

They stand in front of one another on the dock, mostly naked, and then Sid steps closer, the mood shifting. He lifts his hand, pauses, a question in his eyes. Zhenya takes a breath and nods, shivering slightly when Sid puts a hand on Zhenya's wrist.

Without taking his eyes off Zhenya's, Sidney pulls Zhenya's wrist up and puts his lips to his palm. Zhenya shivers at the sensation.

"Okay?" Sid asks, eyes still locked on Zhenya's.

Zhenya nods, not trusting his voice enough to speak.

It seems to satisfy Sid, because he smiles and draws Zhenya in. "Okay?" he asks again, lips against Zhenya's jaw.

Zhenya swallows. "Okay," he answers.

Sidney kisses him there before tilting his head and kissing him on the lips. Zhenya brings his hands up to cup Sidney's jaw, changing the angle. Sidney's hands wander, down Zhenya's back and forward until his fingers brush against Zhenya's hips, just above the waistband of his briefs.

"Have you ever—? With a guy, I mean." Sid lets the question hang, rubbing his thumb against Zhenya's iliac crest.

Zhenya shakes his head. "Have you?" He knows the answer, but asks all the same.

"Yeah," Sid says. "There've been — yeah, I have."

Zhenya swallows. "You show — you show me?"

Sid's hand stills, and he looks up at Zhenya. "Okay," he says softly. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Zhenya's lips. Zhenya returns it, pressing into Sid, but he pulls away when a cicada starts buzzing nearby.

"Wait, Sid, wait," Zhenya gasps.

Sidney stops immediately. "What is it?"

"I thought we here to swim."

Sidney thunks his head against Zhenya's chest. He's shivering a little in the cool night air. "Do you really want to go swimming tonight?" he mumbles into Zhenya's sternum.

"We don't swim tonight, what we do instead?" Zhenya asks just to be ornery.

It gets him the glare he hoped for. "If we go back up to the house now, I'm going to blow you, and then I'm going to walk you through fucking me, and if you wake up early enough, we might be able to go swimming before we have lunch with my parents."

Zhenya goes hot all over, his stomach filled with butterflies. "Okay, Sid, we do your plan. We swim tomorrow."

Sidney's teeth glint in the moonlight. "I thought you would like that idea."

Sidney kisses him once, twice, a third time, before he steps away and scoops up their clothes, leading Zhenya back to the house.

*

The first day in Cole Harbour sets the tone for the rest of the month. By day, they hang out with Sidney's parents, take Taylor to the hockey rink or the soccer fields, and explore the local tourist sites, including at least five of the lighthouses Taylor told Zhenya about. And at night, they take each other apart, learning all the things about each other they didn't have time for in the spring.

It's like living in a dream, a fugue state, where Zhenya wakes and thinks it can't possibly be true, but he turns and there Sidney is, watching him with a soft smile on his face.

Time moves slowly and too fast, the days bleeding into each other until their passage is marked only by the changing colors of the leaves and the way the temperature drops until it's too chilly to convince Sidney to swim in the lake any more.

At month's end, Zhenya and Sidney re-pack their bags and say goodbye to Sidney's family, bound for Arizona.

 

**Surprise Saguaros, Arizona, 2007**

Arizona is an extension of the dream, everything Zhenya has ever wanted: baseball and Sidney and lots of time for both. The Saguaros come together quickly, a collection of major league hopefuls from around the minors. There are a few familiar faces from the Futures game, Francisco Gomez and Armistice Baxter from the Royals, and Max LaBrea from the Rangers, and the rest become friends or at least friendly as the season opens.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sidney quickly becomes the de facto team captain, despite being the youngest on the team, dictating play and coaxing better performances out of everyone than even Zhenya anticipated.

It's not quite enough to land them the league championship. The Saguaros post a 16-15 record for the season and take third in the playoffs, a respectable victory, though not the one they wanted. Zhenya knows Sidney isn't satisfied with it — the furrow between his eyebrows doesn't disappear even after late-night milkshakes and burgers at the IHOP their last night in Surprise.

Zhenya throws his straw wrapper at him, hitting Sidney and making him jump.

"You look —" Zhenya wiggles his hand. "Not happy, little bit mad?"

Sidney sighs. "I'm not mad."

Zhenya waits patiently, sure there are more words coming.

"Just — I know we're building," Sidney starts, and here's the onslaught. "It's the minors, and we're technically in instructional leagues, and not everyone we play with is gonna make it, even here, where it's supposed to be the best from each team."

Zhenya bites his lip, sparing a thought for Bart and Cammo and other guys he's known or met over the past few years. Even now, when things are looking so good for both him and Sidney, he knows nothing is guaranteed, not for either of them, until they actually make it to the big leagues.

"And I know that the standings don't really matter," Sidney continues, "not as much as personal stats and development, but." Sidney twists his napkin in his hands. "I'm tired of losing, G. I haven't had a winning season since I got drafted."

Zhenya wants to tease him about the whine in his voice, but Sidney looks so tired and worried that the words die on his tongue. "We win next season," he says instead. "You see. We play Altoona, maybe Indiana, and we take championship. We go on win streak, you break caught-stealing record, I get all home runs. You see."

" _All_ the home runs?" Sidney asks, a tiny smile forming.

Zhenya waves his hand. "I let you score some, too," he says magnanimously.

It gets the laugh he was hoping for. Sidney bumps his foot against Zhenya's, leaving it there in place of taking his hand. "We're really in this together, aren't we, G?"

Zhenya wishes he could reach across the table and twine their fingers together, that he could kiss Sidney's knuckles right there in front of everyone. He settles for fierce honesty. "Always, Sid. You and me, Pirates forever."

*****

**Pittsburgh Pirates, 2008**

Their well-laid plans for the 2008 season go awry when Zhenya makes the final cut for the major league team at spring training. It's an electric shock to his heart — he knew there was a chance he'd make the roster this year, but didn't think it would actually happen, let alone at the start of the season — and Sid, of course, is _delighted_ for him.

"You're gonna be in the Show!" Sid says, rubbing Zhenya's shoulder in a way that holds a promise for later, when they're not in the middle of a crowd of people, all hovering around the corkboard with the last of the cuts listed.

Zhenya shrugs him off and wipes at his eyes. "But you're not," he says, trying to keep his voice under control. The thought terrifies him, the absurd fear that Sid might not make it out of the minors threatening to make his voice crack.

Luckily, Sid has more sense than Zhenya.

"I've still got time," Sid reminds him, almost as if he's reading Zhenya's thoughts. He puts a comforting hand back on Zhenya's shoulder, uses it to lead him out of the way of the crowd. "And besides, if they call me up now, I'd just be back-up to the back-up. Stone and Adams are both ahead of me. At least in Altoona, I'll have playing time, eh?"

He's right, Zhenya knows, but the idea of starting the season without Sid — and in the _Majors_ , in _Pittsburgh_ , no less — still makes him want to throw up a little.

*

He doesn't play in the first game, but that's no great surprise. He watches from the dugout, taking note of the difference in the rhythm of the game compared to what he's been accustomed to in the minors. There's a fluidity to it, a smoothness that's missing from the rougher-edged minor leagues.

There's also the crowd, giddy with the start of a new season, the sound so much louder than any crowd he's heard from the field before. It takes his breath away, and Zhenya can't wait for his own chance to show them what he can do.

He gets that chance the next night, and the terror almost overtakes him again. He calls Sid in between practice and warmups, not sure whether Sid will be able to answer. The Eastern League doesn't start for another couple days, but that doesn't mean Sid won't be busy.

"Hey, G," Sid says warmly when he picks up, "shouldn't you be getting ready for your game?"

"Can't, Sid," he stammers back. "I'm sick."

"You're sick?" Sid asks, concern obvious. "You talk to the trainer? The team doc?"

"No, no. Just — scared. Sick because I'm scared, you know?"

"Ohh," Sid answers, his voice settling down a little. He pauses, maybe waiting for Zhenya to say something else, and then he says, "I found us a place in Altoona. Well, I guess I found _me_ a place, but I made sure it has space for you, if you get a chance to visit."

"Tell me?"

"It's an apartment," Sid starts. "Furnished. Two bedrooms, one for me, one for you."

"Separate rooms?" Zhenya asks, a little incredulous.

Sid laughs. "Okay, a room for us, and a room for your junk," he says softly. "Visitors, too, if my parents come to stay."

"Big rooms? What's beds like?"

"Not _huge_ rooms," Sid admits, "but they're not tiny, either. Not like the one we shared in Hickory, yeah? And the bed is big enough that you can starfish all you want, and I won't have to worry about falling out."

"Sounds nice."

"It is." Sid goes quiet again. "But it feels pretty empty without you."

Zhenya opens his mouth to say he misses Sid, but someone behind him says, "Hey, Geno, stop talking to your girlfriend and get changed!"

Sid must hear because he giggles. "You better go, G. And hey, it's just another game, yeah? You'll be fine."

Zhenya laughs a little too. "Love you," he whispers against the speaker on his phone. "Miss you."

"Love you too, G," Sid says back. "Now go knock 'em dead."

*

He plays like shit, going 1 for 17 in his first seven games. It's awful, the worst streak of his career to date, and that includes the night he nearly puked on the field from food poisoning back in Williamsport. He should be riding the high of living the dream, but instead Zhenya dreads seeing his name in the lineup.

To make things worse, he and Sidney have hardly spoken since his first game. They miss each other's calls constantly — a direct consequence of Zhenya's much busier schedule — and wind up having to leave messages.

"Hey, Geno, guess we're still playing phone-tag," starts one of Sid's voicemails. "I can't talk for long, but I just wanted to say good luck tonight. Keep going, you'll get it, I know. I love you."

Zhenya immediately hits play again, letting the sound of Sid's voice wash over him.

*

**Altoona Curve, 2008**

It's a relief when they decide to send him back down to double-A. Zhenya's batting hasn't improved, and he's been relegated to batting ninth if he's in the lineup at all. There's a lot of back-slapping and platitudes as he gathers up his gear after their game in Los Angeles. Zhenya takes it all with as much grace as he can muster, though the only solid thought in his mind is that he'll see Sidney again soon.

Zhenya lands in Altoona on a red-eye either late on Sunday night or early on Monday morning, he isn't sure which. He's bleary-eyed and exhausted, which is why he thinks he's imagining it when he first sees Sidney standing outside the arrivals gate, waiting for him. When he realizes that Sid is real, it's all he can do to keep from kissing him right there in the middle of the airport. He allows himself a hug anyway, clinging longer than he probably should. Sid clings back just as tightly before guiding Zhenya to the baggage claim.

"I told Coach I'd do it, since you'll be living with me," Sid explains while they wait for Zhenya's oversized bags to arrive. "Honestly, I think he was just glad he wouldn't have to send one of the trainers to get you."

Zhenya merely grunts in answer, trying not to fall asleep on his feet.

It's a good thing Sidney's watching out for him, because he's the one who picks up Zhenya's duffle and guides him out to the car. Once his seatbelt is buckled, he doesn't even attempt to keep his eyes open.

"Hey, Geno, wake up," Sidney says. Zhenya blinks awake to find that the car has stopped. "We're here."

Zhenya rubs at his eyes and lets Sidney manhandle him from the car into the apartment building and up the stairs. Sid doesn't turn on the lights when he unlocks the apartment door. He drops Zhenya's bags and takes his hand, leading him to the bedroom, pointing out features of the apartment along the way.

Zhenya will have time to appreciate the cornices and light fixtures later; right now all he wants is the beautiful king-size bed in front of him. The sheets are rumpled, and there are extra pillows lined up down the center of the bed, tucked in the shape Sid likes to be spooned. It's the sort of thing that Zhenya might chirp him for, later, but right now it just looks like heaven.

"I almost overslept the alarm, so I didn't have time to make the bed before I picked you up," Sid says from behind him.

"Don't care," Zhenya answers, and he truly doesn't. He kicks off his shoes and flops on the bed, not caring he's still in his airplane clothes.

He hears Sidney sigh and then feels him tugging at his jacket. "Come on, you'll regret sleeping in your clothes when you wake up with your jacket strangling you."

Zhenya pushes himself up just enough to pull off his jacket and shirt. He squirms out of his jeans, too, tossing them to the floor and flopping back down with an arm flung over his eyes.

He can hear the sounds of Sid stripping down and probably putting his pajamas back on.

"Scoot over," Sidney says, pushing at Zhenya's shoulder until he shuffles gracelessly sideways, shoving at the extra pillows until they're out of the way.

Sid climbs in beside him, pulling the covers over them both and curling close. Zhenya tilts into him and heaves a sigh. It releases some of the tension Zhenya's been holding, so he does it again, a little less heavy this time. He repeats it several times, drawing deep breaths that smell faintly of Sid and letting them out slowly, relaxing into Sid and the bed.

He's nearly asleep again when Sid whispers against his ear, "I missed you." He says it so quietly that Zhenya almost thinks he imagined it.

"Miss you too," he murmurs.

"I'm glad you're here," Sid says, still softly. "It's not the same without you."

"Mmm," Zhenya hums. "I'm here now." He moves his hand, seeking out Sid's. Sid catches it and links their fingers together.

"I know," Sid says, and this time, Zhenya can hear the smile in his voice. "Let's sleep, and in the morning, I'll blow you. As a, you know, welcome home present."

It's a testament to his exhaustion that Zhenya can only muster up a half-hearted " _davai_ " to that.

True to his word, when Sidney's alarm beeps in the morning, he turns it off and slides down the bed to bury his face in Zhenya's groin. Sid's long hair tickles Zhenya's skin; Zhenya will have to make him get a haircut soon. Sidney pulls Zhenya's underwear down, dropping light kisses as he goes.

When he reaches Zhenya's cock, he murmurs something that might be "I missed you," before taking it into his mouth. Zhenya would tease him about it, but he's too busy being taken apart. After he comes, Zhenya pulls Sidney back up the bed and gets his hands on him, jerking him off while he tells Sidney how glad he is to be back in his bed.

They shower together before they head to the ballpark, stealing kisses under the spray in between washing each other's hair.

*

Zhenya expects being back in Altoona to be strange, but it isn't, really. Coach folds him back into the lineup, giving him ample opportunity to hit himself out of his slump, and he acclimates to the team in almost no time. It probably helps that it's clearly Sidney's room; though he's still one of the youngest on the team, he seems to know everything about everyone. What's more, they listen to him. It makes Zhenya's heart sing to see it. Sidney will make a fine captain when they finally call him up to the majors.

The season progresses apace, May and June slipping by until the All-Star break is just around the corner. Zhenya fully expects Sidney to get the call for the Futures Game in New York. Sidney demurs when Zhenya brings it up, always concerned about jinxing himself.

It turns out Zhenya is wrong. Sidney gets a call, but it's not an invitation to the Futures Game. It's an invitation to the Show, his major league call-up. Zhenya is happy for him, of course, though there's also a pang of jealousy, that Sidney is going and Zhenya has to stay behind.

Like Zhenya's call-up to Altoona last year, they don't have time for a proper goodbye, so they have to settle for promises to call as soon as Sidney gets in.

*

"I found a place to stay!" is the first thing Sid says when Zhenya answers the phone.

Zhenya knows Sid was stressing about finding somewhere to live — Zhenya had offered to ask Martire and his wife, but Sid insisted he didn’t want to put them out since they just had a baby — so he smiles even though Sid can’t see and says, "Where?"

"I’m staying with Flower — Fleury. He’s pretty great." And from there, Sid launches into a detailed description of his entire experience of Pittsburgh up until this very moment, starting with his arrival at PNC that morning through practice and Fleury ( _"Flower_ , nobody calls him by his real name") and his wife offering him the spare bedroom in their house. "They're Canadian, too, and they have a secret stash of Tim Horton’s coffee."

"You drink coffee before game tonight?" Zhenya jokes.

"Of course not," Sid scoffs breezily. "It’s Gatorade-only until game time, you know that."

"Peanut butter sandwich too?"

"Yeah," Sid admits after an embarrassed pause. He might think he was sneaky, but Zhenya knows for a fact that there was at least one jar of peanut butter in his luggage just in case he couldn’t find the right brand in Pittsburgh.

"Good."

There’s an extended silence where they listen to each other breathe for a little while before they both speak at once.

"Were you this —"

"Should let you —" Zhenya stops and waits for Sid to continue.

Sid giggles, high-pitched and nervous. "It’s dumb, right, to be freaking out? It’s just another game, eh?"

 _Just another game_ — it’s exactly the same phrasing Sid used when Zhenya called him in a panic in April, before his first game in Pittsburgh.

"It’s not dumb, Sid. Okay to be freak."

Sid laughs again, less hysterically, and there’s a voice in the background, though Zhenya can’t tell what they’re saying.

"That’s Flower. We gotta head to the stadium. I’ll call you after the game, okay?" Sid lowers his voice. "I miss you."

"Miss you, too," Zhenya says.

He doesn't get to watch the game that night because he's in one of his own, but he catches the highlights on ESPN after he gets home. Sid plays well, getting a base hit and drawing a walk, though the Pirates lose the game.

Sid doesn't call as promised, but he sends a text around three with a grainy picture of him being hugged by Fleury in a bar.

 _Flower insisted on taking me out. I'll call you before practice_.

Zhenya doesn't respond, just stares at Sid's half-closed eyes and dopey smile. He doesn't get much sleep that night.

*

Zhenya thought he'd seen everything Sidney had to offer the game, but he was wrong. Sidney blossoms in Pittsburgh, playing the best baseball of his life. He seems to make the highlight reels every night, and it isn't long before he's getting almost as many starts as Adams, the nominal first-string catcher. There are rumors that he's being considered for Rookie of the Year, though he hangs up on Zhenya the one time he brings it up.

Zhenya is immensely proud of Sidney and takes every opportunity to tell him so. As with last season, they play a lot of phone tag, leaving each other long voicemails or strings of one-sided conversations via text. Zhenya memorizes the Pirates' away schedule, because those are the nights when Sid is most likely to be free after Zhenya finishes a game.

Meanwhile, Zhenya continues to slog through the season in Altoona. His batting average has reverted to the norm and his fielding has improved significantly, but there's an itch under his skin that won't go away. Now that he's had a taste of the majors — and so thoroughly embarrassed himself there — he wants to be back in it. He wants a chance to prove himself, to show that he _is_ worthy, that the last five years of his life haven't been in vain.

He tries to explain it to Sidney once, but he isn't sure he understands. Sidney takes it as a matter of course that Zhenya will make it back to the Show — either sometime this year or next — apparently incapable of imagining a scenario where this spring was Zhenya's only shot.

"Don't be absurd," Sidney tells him when he brings it up on one of their rare skype conversations. "You'll be here next year for sure, and if you're not, it's because the front office is really that stupid sometimes."

Zhenya loves his optimism, but it does little to quell the voice in his head that still whispers _what if…_

What _does_ eventually quell it is the praise from Coach Leiper and the scouts that come through the league. Zhenya pays more than one locker room fine for making the top prospects lists, and that, coupled with the steady improvement in his play, gives him hope.

*

**Pittsburgh Pirates, 2008**

Zhenya flies into Cincinnati in early September along with four other guys on the forty-man. There's a van waiting for them at the airport, so they dump their gear in the trunk and cram into the car. None of them have gotten much rest — they're coming off the last stretch of away games — but they're all too excited about being call-ups anyway. Zhenya is antsy, tapping his phone against his thigh, wishing it would buzz with a text or a call just to give him something to do.

It doesn't, of course, but it isn't long until they arrive at the team hotel. They check in with the concierge for their room keys and itinerary. The other guys are paired together, sharing rooms, but Zhenya gets a wallet with just one key.

When he lets himself into his room, he sees why. Sid's charcoal grey suit is hanging in the closet, his shaving kit laid out on the bathroom counter. Zhenya drops his bags on the floor and flops down on one of the beds. The itinerary says he doesn't have to report to the field until five, when the entire team will meet before going to dinner, so he might as well nap.

Zhenya makes himself get up and change clothes first, getting rid of at least some of the airport smell still clinging to him. He climbs back on the bed and closes his eyes, drifting into a pleasant sleep.

He startles awake when he hears the door unlock. Zhenya sits up on his elbows and blinks at Sidney, who breaks out into a smile.

"You're here," Sid says, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"I'm here," Zhenya agrees, smiling back.


End file.
